Bluck-Bluck-Bluck-Bluck!

This book will go on sale in March, 2012.

     Yesterday I had an exciting phone call, but I tried to keep my hopes dampened down a bit. A story I had submitted a while ago made it to the "semi-finals" for a Chicken Soup for the Soul anthology. What an honor to make it that far, I figured. I had heard from several people--Linda O'Connell, for example--about how being "chosen" was sometimes a temporary high. Once the final selections are made, some stories get kicked to the curb.

     Why let the news spread like wildfire, if I'm only going to be disappointed later?  I rationalized. I've got time to savor my little scrap of success before the final cut is made.

      Today, I got another email. My story "No More Ditches" has made the final cut and will be in the collection Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Magic of Mothers and Daughters, due out in March of 2012.

      Yahoo!

        

Bloody Blogger!

      I am still having trouble posting on some blogs. I cannot understand why some are easy sailing, and others are impossible. (I cannot even post a comment on my own blog!) So if I have not posted on your blog--and I usually do--it's because I have done everything Mr. Blogger has asked, and still he snubs me.

     These are the steps I have been asked to take by Mr. Blogger:

1. Sign in under my Google account. Redirected...
2. Sign in as "anonymous." On some blogs this works.
3. If anonymously sneaking in a comment does not succeed, I get the following request:

• Pull your hair up to show the true color.
• Pull your shirt up, and make your belly fat into a "puppet."
• Pull your upper eyelids up, to see what you'd look like if you had the money to get a much-needed face lift.

4. Then, Mr. Blogger laughs, and "redirects" me again...to nowhere.

Does anyone out there have a solution?  Are there others like me? Are you having trouble (still) as well? SOS (Save Old Sioux).

It's Thursday TMA (The Morning After)

      Lately, a couple of times a month, I binge on Wednesday nights. I get wildly drunk. I revel. I carouse.

      Of course, since one glass of wine loosens my tongue to the point of embarrassment (mine) and amusement (everyone else), I'm not talkin' 'bout booze. Since my after-hours life is so pathetically sucky, the level of the revel is not too high.* And since I'm so menopausally and sleep apnea-sleep deprived, the carousing is not too late ("Yikes! It's quarter after 9!") nor does it ever result in a call to the police. (However, there's always that frozen leg of lamb or the wood chipper...that just might end up getting the cops' attention!)

     A couple of Wednesdays a month, I meet with a group of wild women with pens. The laughter, the kinship, the sharp barbs...that's the whipped cream, because why we're really there is to hone our writing ability and increase our submissions.

Here are a few things I've learned so far from my "chicka peeps":

• When you're tempted to wait for a friend to get out of their car so you can knock on the door together, and the friend has a bunch of flowers in hand (and your hands are empty), race to the door, and make sure you make your own entrance. That way, your lack of thoughtfulness will not be so evident. 
• Looks can be deceiving. Sometimes women can be thin, young, cute and talented in the area of writing. They can also be genuinely wonderful people.  It doesn't happen very often, but when it does, I've found I like them in spite of it.
• When faced with self doubt...when you get a rejection letter...when you're worried your writing sucks...Think WWSD.

          What would Sioux do?  Sioux would say, "_____   _____." (It's one of her favorite phrases.) It just tears and wears you down if you obsess over the opinion of others. Work your craft. Let your talent shine. And let doubt fall to the wayside.

      What charges your battery? Who are your "chicka peeps" (or your "scratch and sniff pals," if you're of the male persuasion?) What snappy comeback do you give--at least in your mind--when you get rejected? Inquiring minds want to know... 

         (How did I do, Hope?)

* Although my husband got us tickets to see John Prine in December, and I'm shrieking with delight. Shay, eat your heart out.

For $4.84, I'm a Door? A Bore? No, I'm a ____!

      Some day when I get a gig as a speaker at some conference, I'm going to use the shortened version of this title: I Was a $4.84 Prostitute ____. It says so much...how little I would accept for my writing...how conscientious I was about my writing craft, despite the miniscule pay-off...how much a challenge could drive me...

     ("I want to do it, too. Tell me! Pleasepleaseplease!" Do you really want to be on an opposite street corner from me, wearing snagged-up fishnet stockings, thigh-high boots, a miniskirt and a bustier?  I think not. I'm not going to make it that easy for you by giving you the link so you can just click on it and then ruin yourself. It's interactmedia (dot) com. If you're determined to dive to the lower depths of hell, go for it.)

    Quite a while ago, a friend gave me the link to an online copywriting site. She had written an audition piece for them, got accepted, and filled up her evenings writing for them. Since the paypal paychecks came every two weeks, the realization did not come immediately: she was writing for less than a penny per word.

Two Prostitutes in Paris
painting by Di Ceglia

    When it dawned on her, she argued with me: "Surely it's a misprint. They must have put the decimal point in the wrong place.  Who would work for .7 cents a word?" When I utilized my rudimentary grasp of math to reason with her (after all, I only teach 3rd grade. If she wanted to know how many legs 6 spiders have, I could rattle that off easily. Decimal points are a little more difficult.), she ran off in a huff and hasn't written another thing for them.

    It was too late for me, however. I had already gotten sucked in.

    The reasons why I still write for them occasionally (but never for .7 cents a word anymore):

    1) Writerly pride. Each piece gets rated by an editor and the client.  The articles can get 1-5 stars or--shudder--they can get declined.

    2) The money. Granted, earning $12 or $14 while I sit and watch yet another evening of Mark Harmon on NCIS ("I've only seen this episode three times!") is not impressive. However, it's more than what I'd earn if I was sitting on the couch knitting while I drooled. (Some of the earliest pieces I did write for only .7 cents a word; the writing was worth more than $4.84, but I was just beginning, and the subject intrigued me.) 

   3) The challenge.  This is the primary hook for me, and a wonderful source of amusement for my husband lately.

     Because, you see, with each piece, you have to masquerade as an expert. About a myriad of topics. Some of the things I've written about:

• ductwork
• reimbursement specialists for medical practices
• the SEER rating
• top-rated hotel beds
• industrial laser marking
• dental veneers
• oil boilers (this one really made my husband guffaw)
• automated broadcast graphics (I cannot even say an intelligent word about this topic, but I wrote hundreds of knowledgeable words about it)
• motocross racing in Idaho
• laser tattoo removal
• locum tenens

     So when I have not posted for a while...if I have not commented on your post for a while (and I'm having trouble commenting on some posts lately--I cannot comment with a google account, and cannot comment with a URL name, etc.)...perhaps I'm too busy writing about some subject I know nothing about as I pretend to know everything... 

Elephant Pants, Hip Huggers and Nehru Jackets

        I was recently thinking of one of my favorite outfits when was 11 or 12. I had a cousin who was a professional-level tailor, and she constructed a turquoise Nehru jacket and pair of pants for me. I loved it. Sadly, I could use a Nehru jacket again in my current state...It would hide my turkey neck.



photo by Wrightbrain
Nehru jackets--popular with the early Beatles, men from India, and weird girls like me...



       When I was 12, bell bottoms were not belled enough. I begged and pleaded until my mother would cut slits in the bottom, and sew in a large triangle of contrasting fabric to make them bell out. I needed so much room for clearance, I hired a truck with a sign warning "Wide Load" to travel behind me. And it wasn't because of my cellulite-ridden rear end (then).



       Often, the bell-bottoms were also hip-huggers. At 12 or 13, I had curves---breasts and hips--and something really strange which I've forgotten about: visible ribs.

photo by Tory RoJo
Yikes!  These are scary hip huggers. Sorry.

photo by sandriocat
Aaah. That's better. THESE are the hip-huggers I remember with such fondness...

        Linda O'Connell sent out an email with this link about the sixties. For those who are much younger than I am, you can see some of the groovy stuff that made our lives so rich. And if you remember that era well, this will just be a blast from the past...

          And perhaps you could comment on some of the crazy hair or clothes you remember--even if they were not from the 60's.

      

Having the Good Fortune of Siamese Twins

drawing/photo by Prof. Jas. Mundie

         A writer friend of mine, Tammy, recently spoke of "separating the Siamese twins." Someone had shared a story, and we all thought there were two stories embodied in the single piece.

      Just as it's delicate work to surgically separate conjoined twins, it is also tough when using a knife during revising. Which parts need to be taken out?  What needs to be added so each part stands on its own? Or is it impossible to ensure that both stories survive? Perhaps one was "feeding" off the other and is unable to live independently.

       Certainly, it's a great problem to have: Two. Two. Two writing pieces in one. However, there has been at least one instance when I was in that predicament and lost interest when the OR was booked. It was as if I lost steam once the initial piece was put onto paper. I vented. I poured my heart out. Now it will have to languish, on a ventilator, until I am willing to scrub up and start cutting.

      I loved Tammy's phrase. It's perfect. What great phrases have you created or stolen heard about the writing process (or the teaching/kid wrangling process)?